“That wasn’t what I meant at all,” Nancy interposed hastily. Then she took out her watch and looked at it a little ostentatiously. “It is a glorious day, Mr. Barth, and I wish you a pleasant drive. It is nearly dinner time, and I must hurry on.”
“Why not let me take you in?” he urged. “I am going directly back to The Maple Leaf.”
But Nancy’s answer permitted no argument.
“Thank you, no. I am out for the exercise, and you are going on farther. It is impossible for me to interfere with your drive.” And, with a curt bow, she turned away and stalked off in the direction of the Grand Allée.
The light died out of Barth’s eyes and the friendly smile fled from his lips, as he realized that, for the first time in his life, he had had his overtures rejected. Worst of all, the rejection was by an American and, from his point of view, totally without cause. Mr. Cecil Barth dropped back in his seat, stretched out his lame foot into a position of comparative comfort, and then said Things to himself.
He passed Nancy just outside the Saint Louis Gate. Head up, shoulders thrown back, she was swinging along with the free step of perfect health and equally perfect content. From the solitary dignity of his cab, Barth eyed her askance.
“Wait a bit, though,” he apostrophized her, with a sudden burst of prophecy. “The time will come, Miss Howard, when you don’t rush off and leave me alone like this.”
But Nancy, rosy and flushed with exercise, entered the dining-room, that noon, without a glance in his direction. Barth kept his own eyes glued to his plate; but, from over his right shoulder, he could hear every word of her merry talk with Reginald Brock. As he listened, Barth began to question whether England might not have allowed too great a share of independence to certain of her western colonies.
CHAPTER NINE
“Miss Howard?”